Death By Flying Typewriter
Autumn 1971, Gainesville, Florida
By Felice Prager
He picked up the typewriter and threw it across the room. He hurled it with enough force to make a dent in the wall behind me, not to mention a permanent adjustment to my brain if it had hit me first.
Then he said, “What did you just see?”
“I see a lunatic!” I thought to myself. “I see a maniac! I see my life ending prematurely!” However, these were only thoughts that passed through my head. At the time, I did not have the guts to say anything so brazen aloud. All I knew was that the typewriter missed my head by six inches at the most, and I was too intimidated to react with anger.
That was 35 years ago, but as memories go, it is one that has come back to haunt me many times. Except for a few moments of terror with my own child’s death-defying stunts on his BMX bike, I do not think I have ever been quite as frightened.
Being the token freshman chosen for an advanced writing program usually reserved for upper classmen, I was in way over my head. Often, I thought it might have been a clerical error that had placed me in this class in those early days of computerized scheduling, but it seemed the famous author who was teaching the class was aware of my status.
I was 18; it seemed obvious to me that the others in the class were older and more mature. Most of the students were juniors and seniors. Others were people who came to the university with just one goal – to take a writing course from this famous Southern author. I knew from the first day that I did not belong there.
I did not know until the semester was completed that the author teaching the class did the same thing with the same typewriter every semester. Upper classmen knew about the ritual. They had heard rumors of it and were waiting for the teacher to pick out his victim and take aim for the pre-existing indentation just over the unfortunate student’s head. “Did he throw the typewriter yet?”
I did not know it was his trademark teaching technique. I just presumed he was picking on me. He had a semi-deranged look anyway; it would not be far-fetched for him to try to kill a student who could not write well just because the student did not live up to expectations.
I would have dropped the class, but I was young and afraid. Mostly, I was naive and new to the university environment, away from home for the first time in my life and, for my age, emotionally immature. The typewriter dramatization was interpreted by me as something very personal. To me, the crazed author hated my writing so much that he wanted to put us both out of our misery. It was his form of euthanasia – death by flying typewriter.
I wrote very little for this class and what I wrote was unacceptable. I agonized and walked a lot. I rode my bike endlessly trying to get my creativity up to an acceptable level. In the end, I convinced myself that I did not have the ability, creativity, or uniqueness to please my teacher.
Other students arrived at class eager to read their latest creative effort. When he assigned things, I arrived at the next class with nothing to submit, and if I had something with me, it quickly was crumbled into my pocket upon hearing other students’ efforts. Having been an overachiever throughout high school, submitting poor material or nothing at all was very out of character. I had talent but it was high school talent. I was gifted, but I played that out in high school, too. I could not find the spark within me to impress the professor and show him I had the spark. I just wanted to hide in a corner in a fetal position. I wanted it all to go away.
“Little Miss Prima Dona Freshman didn’t write again? I thought you were going to be a super star,” he would taunt. “Did you tell lies on your college application? What a waste of a seat! Other students would have given anything to sit in here. Why are you wasting your time and mine?”
I never answered him. My eyes would well up with tears, and I was unable to speak.
I also knew the answer was that he was right. I did not belong there. The seat was wasted on me. I had to learn to walk as a writer before I could run. I may have been gifted, but I was not ready for him.
However, I never missed a class. I hung onto the author’s words. When he was not picking on me, he was brilliant. He knew about pacing. He knew about the importance of word choice. He had suffered through the process of rewriting entire novels when I had yet to complete a few polished stories. Where I had lived so little, he had a lifetime of experience. He would read from his manuscripts and I hung onto every word.
Nevertheless, I could not write for him. The few things I wrote he ripped apart. They deserved it. What I wrote was awful. Had I taken this class six months later, a year later, perhaps the outcome would have been different, but you cannot undo your life and rewrite it.
I transferred to another school the following year. It was not because of this class. Life deals us strange cards sometimes, and I was drawn back to my family. My father had gotten ill; though the doctors had not found the cancer that was consuming his body yet, I instinctively knew his time was gravely short. I made up an excuse about roommates and social problems and moved back home.
I did not write another creative word for 20 years.
I pursued an unrelated career and had a family. My life was about other people’s schedules and other people’s priorities. During those years, I wrote notes to teachers and food lists. I wrote invoices and created spreadsheets. I wrote letters to friends and created an above average Christmas insert for those on my Christmas card list, but I wrote nothing else.
Yet there was always a voice somewhere in the back of my mind that was recreating my reality. In the notebook in my head, I was writing sentences and then rewriting them. However, I put nothing else on paper after taking that creative writing course.
A few years ago, I had a near-death experience that changed my life. Near-death experiences can do that. I realized something was missing. I realized, besides my family, the only other true joy I got from life was gotten when I wrote.
I have been writing ever since.
Starting a career at 40 is not easy. These days, I spend more time writing, rewriting, and submitting than I do cleaning, cooking, and applying makeup. The clock ticks so fast, and the hours in the day are never enough for my energy level. Dinner is often late if it arrives at all. My house is very dusty. Sleep is highly overrated.
I learned recently through a website created about the author who taught the writing course that the one thing he hated most in his life was his stint as a college professor. He said he did not have the talent to inspire. He said his biggest regret is that he failed to inspire so many young writers.
I suppose I was one of these young writers he failed, and had you asked me 20 years ago I would agree with him. However, every time I write a sentence, the process I go through to polish it and perfect it comes directly from the words I heard when I was 18 years old. Perhaps he was one of the greatest teachers I ever had. It just took me twenty years to figure that out.
Felice Prager is a freelance writer from Scottsdale, Arizona, with credits in local, national, and international publications. In addition to writing, she also works with adults and children with moderate to severe learning disabilities as a multisensory educational therapist.
Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, December 15th, 2006 | Email This PostThis entry was posted on Friday, December 15th, 2006 at 12:03 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
17 Responses to “Death By Flying Typewriter”
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December 15th, 2006 at 9:20 am
Well done, Felice
December 15th, 2006 at 9:49 am
I wonder if the Southern Writer had known of Flannery O’Connor’s response to people who ask if writing programs ‘discourage would be writers.’ Her response was, ‘not enough of them.’
Since I also quit writing for about 20 years after university because another semi-famous writer told me that if she couldn’t write she would die, which convinced me that I didn’t have what it took, this piece resonates with me. I figured that meeting new people, listening to live music, making ceramic bowls, and searching for a soulmate would just have to do. In other words, I needed to learn a lot more about life before I really had something to write about.
Now, 40 seems like a young chick to me. Go, Felice.
December 15th, 2006 at 2:49 pm
What a great barrel of laughs, glad I read this one!
(If that prof is still around, do you think he throws computer monitors at students these days?)
December 15th, 2006 at 3:19 pm
What a waste of your remarkable talent!
I had an opposite experience. In college, I was an accounting major–and a rather good one, 4.0 GPA, that sort of stuff. Early on, I took a Humanities course from a lunatic professor who mostly played Tom Lehrer records for us. In the lab section, however, I had a worthy professor (not a grad student–can you believe it?) who worked with us and taught us. I still remember vividly being called into his office after submitting a paper on Robert Heinlein’s STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. I had explained the concept behind the word “grok” that was used in the novel. This sincere humanites professor, handed me the paper–which had a big red A+ written on it–and asked me what my major was. I told him I was an accountant. He shook his head wonderingly and said that was all wrong–I was a writer and should be doing something with the talent.
Like you, it took me until my 40s to believe it. What I didn’t know then that I know now is that my writing talent is for non-fiction. I am very, very good at explaining stuff to people in writing. I have absolutely zero talent for fiction. I couldn’t tell a story if my life depended on it.
But I can sure write magazine articles. I’ve sold more than 500 of them and sold a short e-book to a commercial publisher.
I’m extraordinarily glad that you realized your dreams, Felice. You’re a good friend and a wonderfully funny writer. You go, girl!
December 15th, 2006 at 6:42 pm
Felice - Glad to see you are still writing! I had a similar experience years ago (gawd - 25?!!?) while living in Arizona; I now reside with my husband and four-legged daughter in Denver. I had written an essay or article and asked the then-editor Blah-blah Blah-blah-blah, an acquaintance of mine, to read it and give me feedback. He tore it apart, figuratively speaking, and I stopped writing, I stopped believing in myself. Years later, after reading (and enjoying) something I had written and hearing my story, an editor friend said, “Why, he was just jealous!!” Oh, I don’t deny the piece probably needed work and shame on me for being so sensitive but shame on him for being so insensitive!! But that was then and a new year is in front of me to blossom!! Thank you, Felice
:)
December 16th, 2006 at 6:28 pm
I really like this one! Thank you so much for this well written, introspective, and inspiring piece. I am reading it at a time, having turned 40 this year and being out of work, when I am doing a little soul searching for what I want to do when I grow up. Hope no one throws a typewriter at me to help me see the light…
December 27th, 2006 at 2:07 pm
Ms. Prager, I throughly enjoyed the experience of your memory. There’s such deep thoughtfulness and insight in this account. It’s a wonderful story, full of lessons about the value of being honest, pensive, curious and resilient. You inspire me, as a writer and as someone who works with both youth and adults who seek their personal growth.
December 28th, 2006 at 10:21 am
In H.S. I had an art teacher throw a “D’” battery at me for the way I was holding a paint brush. I gave up being an artist. Felice, luckily for us you never gave up being a writer. Keep your eyes open for flying criticism.
December 31st, 2006 at 8:55 am
Felice,
Nice work. Two things to consider:
1.) Use more contractions (change “I could not write for him to “I couldn’t write for him) to speed up the story.
2.) Contact the typewriter-throwing teacher to let him know he inspired you.
Thanks!
Jim
jimdwyer.blogspot.com
January 1st, 2007 at 1:55 pm
In regard to the above comment from Jim Dwyer, the subject of contractions is interesting and, of course, one for debate. If you search the web, most style sheets agree that contractions are perfectly acceptable in dialogue but should be avoided in formal writing. Some grammarians totally avoid the subject. It is ‘old school’ vs ‘new school’ - traditionalists tend to win. In many cases, the editor-in-chief or publisher is the final word on the issue. In regard to this essay, I did not feel the traditional use slowed the essay at all. In fact, I think it added some emphasis to points made and I would not (contraction use avoided deliberately) be surprised if that had been the author’s conscious choice.
E.D.
January 1st, 2007 at 7:56 pm
A great personal story that the writer brings to life in a vivid way. Nice work, Ms. Prager.
January 3rd, 2007 at 2:57 pm
Certainly a great story that I think most adults can relate to in some fashion.
My personal downfall in college was creative writing, a required class, that ultimately flunked me out of that esteemed institution. To present a paper on the workings and concept of the internal combustion engine, NO PROBLEM. Write 200 words on \”Why\”, I\’m dead in the water.
I never had a taste for Math and with a father who earned a nice living in the accounting division, again I was in a bit of a bind. As the years passed and my experiences grew I once again was forced to utilize various forms of math from the simple addition and subtraction to rather advanced algebra. Then, of course, came the advent of the computer with formula\’s being the only way to create a spreadsheet customized to your application. To my surprize, I adapted rather well. What\’s happening, I\’m actually GOOD at this stuff. Can\’t be, I HATE MATH. But this is almost fun, writing formulas, creating spreadsheets, making the program do what I want it to. I think I\’ll teach others how to do this. And for a number of years I made a nice side job of teaching people how to use this wonderful machine that 20 yrs ago would have been akin to something George Orwell or Jules Verne wrote about.
What a wonderful story that we must all look back into our own pasts and smile. Just a bit.
Gary
January 8th, 2007 at 10:28 am
I always enjoy your writing, Felice. I feel as though I’m sitting next to you on the porch as you blab on and on about something that’s been on your mind — always interesting, always so easily conversational.
What I’d like to know is what happened to all those in your class that WERE inspired by this author. I’d also like to know what, exactly, inspired them.
I’d like to know because I would love to be accidentally inspirational — where I don’t come across all self-help-cheezy-poofy but people leave with that little bit of something that moves them. (I’d also like to throw a typewriter, because that’s sounds like fun.)
Your writing does that to me. I always think, “That was good. It seemed so effortless and so casual. I think I’ll give it a try.”
And so, my compliments to the late-bloomer.
January 9th, 2007 at 5:23 pm
Ms Prager,
Thank you for sharing this part of your past! You write so well…as one commentor said, “..always interesting, always so easily conversational..”
I especially appreciate this story now, as I approach my 40th birthday in a few weeks (yikes!). I think most of us have a time in our life that we can look back and remember someone “clipping our wings”. Somewhere around our 40th birthday, we realize the spark is still there…its ALWAYS been there..and we finally learn to fly.
Thank you for sharing this and helping us all to remember to spread our wings and soar!! We get one shot at this life; your story helped to remind us all of that.
January 18th, 2007 at 11:12 am
Hi Felice, Hi Beverly
Good work, Felice, as always. Almost motivated to write something myself.
January 18th, 2007 at 7:15 pm
Felice: As someone who has known you probably longer than just about anyone else, I never doubted your talent. You never cease to bring a smile to my face as I read, whether it’s(or it is, depending on whom you ask, or who you ask) about raising children, or growing up(in which I was there, also). As an educator, I am amazed that someone would throw a typewriter at a student. No matter how frustrated I get at the students, and we all know how frustrating that can be, I would never think about throwing a typewriter. A nerf ball or a pair of socks, maybe, but never a typewriter. It just proves, the bigger you are, the bigger the jerk. May you get big and famous, but never, ever become a jerk.
January 29th, 2007 at 10:39 am
Felice, what a great story. Its a good thing you decided to start writing again. I think I know who your teacher was, and its driving me nuts. Are the initials of this certain writer H.C., and has he written a novel with a title that rhymes with “A Feast of Cakes?” How about “The Gospel Ringer?” This certain writer is one of my personal favorites, and I would give anything to have him throw a typewriter at my head, let alone be my writing teacher. Anyway, I really enjoyed reading this, thanks.